


5 Times Flint Punches Silver, and 1 Time He Doesn't

by i_ship_an_armada



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, M/M, i swear to god i tried to write fluff, this is not fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 11:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_ship_an_armada/pseuds/i_ship_an_armada
Summary: It's like what the label says, I swear.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74





	5 Times Flint Punches Silver, and 1 Time He Doesn't

I.

Quick and agile, Flint swings his cutlass, slicing and clearing the way for the men behind him. Sweat rolls down his spine as he arcs it high above his head and brings it down on the pistol about to put a shot in his chest. 

Shouts and shot deafen him and smoke from firearms cloud the air. He raises his own pistol and fires its load toward an oncoming officer this time (he knows he is an officer because of the gleaming gold buttons and braids, calling attention to the man wearing them as if he waved a red flag in the air). The officer drops like a stone, his rapier clattering to the deck and a dark red rivulet of blood oozing in a trail from the center of his forehead.

There is suddenly not enough space for the path of his sword as the deck is teeming with sailors, and so he drops it, confident he will be able to retrieve it later, and shoves the spent pistol back into his belt. When he reaches for his dirk, he has to leap backward as a young man, a boy no more than eighteen, hair disheveled and falling around his face, swipes at him with a blade. It is much too heavy for him and he swings it awkwardly, but he still manages to come within inches of Flint’s face, and Flint growls. The dirk slides out of his scabbard and fits neatly into the palm of his hand. Flint sidesteps another ungainly swing and twists around the boy like a dancer, turning his wrist just so to bring the hilt of the dirk to his temple with a sharp crack. 

The boy’s eyes roll back into his head before he crumples, still alive, into a heap.

Flint has no love for close combat, but the adrenaline surges through his veins and he is like a dervish, whirling over the deck and leaving destruction in his wake. 

He stabs at another officer, this one gray at the temples and quite obviously not a fighter, though he tries to empty Flint’s skull of his brain with a pistol shot that goes wide. Flint’s blade sinks into his belly and the officer gasps, shock rippling over his features as he drops the pistol to clutch at Flint’s arm. Flint pulls back, but the dirk’s hilt is somehow stuck in the officer’s belt and the hands on Flint’s arm constrict and spasm, keeping him in place.

When a hand grabs his shoulder, he does not think, he reacts. He pivots lightning quick and strikes out with his fist, connecting to a face with a solid hit before he realizes what he’s done. 

He shakes his hand and straightens, the hold of the officer on his arm relinquished. “Jesus fucking Christ, Silver! Stay the fuck out of my way!” he shouts over the yells of the Walrus crew. “You could get yourself killed!” 

Silver stares over his hand which holds his nose. Bright red blood streams below his palm, coating his lower face and his eyes are wide in shock. In his other hand he holds a heavy iron pin. Blood drips from it to the deck in thick, heavy splats.

For once, Silver says nothing. No witty response, no catchy rejoinder comes from him and Flint is momentarily grateful as he storms past Silver to take on his next adversary. 

Later, Flint flinches a little as he hears Silver’s shout when Howell resets his nose.

II.

As he bends over the makeshift table, the crew members bustle about him unloading supplies and putting up tents. Flint is in a foul mood. He only vaguely remembers what sleep is and he can not seem to remember a time when ten things do not go wrong at once. From the fouled water on the voyage here, the infestation of rats (more so than usual, because God knows you never rid a ship of them) that has Flint now demanding they keep not one, but _ three _ cats on board at all times, the outbreak of malignant fever that has passed now but claimed ten men and weakened a dozen more, to this. 

He stares at the map, wondering how in the fuck they are so off course. After days of using every single trick he knows, he decides the maps he purchased in Tortuga of this only roughly explored region are shit and he and Beauclerc will need to sort this out before they can continue on. They will camp here on this uncharted island with— thank God— fresh running water for now. No need to make a horrid predicament any worse by sailing on blind. 

The prize will be long gone, and all his work toward their goal will have been for naught.

Already restless and unsure of his leadership, the men would just as soon maroon him here in the middle of fucking nowhere than to wait and see if any future prizes will make up for this folly.

Beauclerc walks up to him, the navigator's face nearly purple with barely withheld fury, the box in his hand clearly empty.

“It’s gone,” he spits, tossing the box at Flint’s feet.

Flint stares at it, at where the astrolabe should be, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, where the fuck is it?”

“That’s just it, Captain,” Beauclerc begins, exasperated and saying his words through tight lips. “I don’t rightly know. I know—”

Somewhere behind them both, someone clears their throat. “I know where it is.”

Flint turns toward the voice, and finds...Silver. One look at Silver and he just..._ knows _ the little shit has something to do with this _ . _ “What the hell did you do, Mister Silver?”

Silver shifts from foot to foot and and smiles nervously, his bright eyes flicking from Flint to Beauclerc and back again. “I swear to God, I was only looking at the thing.”

Through gritted teeth, Flint growls. “Only looking at it _ where _?”

“I… I wanted to see it better and the light was best near the rail.” Silver’s voice trails off. He digs the toe of his boot into the sand and looks very, very guilty.

Flint narrows his eyes as he feels his heart rate pick up to a dangerously fast pace and his fingers curl into a fist. “You… you fucking dropped it, didn’t you? Into the fucking water.” His tone is low and deadly, and Silver stops looking at Beauclerc entirely as his eyes widen and he takes a half step back in the sand. “Tell me I’m wrong.” 

Beauclerc crosses his arms, still furious, but he smirks. 

“I’m sure you keep a spare—?” Silver begins and Flint sees red, his anger rearing up and over the edge of his control, because no, they don’t keep a spare.

Flint swings, connects with Silver’s cheek, and Silver goes face down in the sand, out cold.

It takes them two extra days before they can piece together a plotted course that does not exacerbate their problem. 

Silver avoids him for longer than that, and Flint feels a small pang of guilt for the swollen, blackened eye, but not enough to apologize.

III.

The men celebrate on the deck, their prize secure in the hold as they sail. One hundred and fifty thousand Spanish dollars worth of precious goods nearly offered to them on a silver platter. 

Flint, in a moment of generosity, lets the men have their entertainment and excuses them from their duties for the evening. He even sits among them as they eat their fill and get louder, their choices taking a turn for the worse, even though they get no more rum than they normally do. 

A scuffle breaks out on the port side near the rail and Flint’s gaze is drawn in that direction. It is difficult to tell who is involved, but he spots a head of curly dark hair. He curses and rises to his feet, setting aside his cup on a crate and feeling the vein in his temple pulse in time with his heart.

Flint does not tolerate fighting amongst the crew. Their behavior is distasteful enough when they get along, but when they brawl, the dissention of wounded egos spreads like wildfire, and Flint does not need any more of that. He has plenty.

By the time he begins to stride across the deck, the number of men involved doubles and fists and feet are flying. It will not take long before fists turn to fouler means of fighting and someone gets seriously hurt. 

This needs to end now.

Billy meets his eyes from the quarterdeck and moves in the same direction, using the rails to swing himself down the stairs without using them to land with a solid thump at the bottom. He meets Flint in the middle and they look at each other, grim and determined. 

The original group of fighters are now surrounded by a circle of men cheering them on. Flint pushes through.

“The fuck—?” Witherspoon curses, turning with hostility at the touch of Flint’s hand but pales and stumbles back with a mumbled excuse before he slinks away when he sees who it is. 

Flint shoulders his way into the ring with Billy close behind, and grabs the first body he sees, pulling him out of the melee. Sheridan lands on his arse but stays there without a word of protest once he looks up at Flint’s dour face. Billy grabs two bodies at once by the neck and summarily cracks their heads together with a solid thunk. They slither to the deck dazed and disoriented. Three more men are left, and they wrestle on the ground like youngsters. 

“You fucking little— “

“— me out of your little goings-on!”

“— gonna beat your arse into—”

Silver is in the middle of it all, swinging wildly to defend against the onslaught, his back to Flint, who reaches for the closest part of Silver he can reach. His hair.

He pulls with a sharp yank, and Silver yelps, and swings his body around with his fist ready to strike whomever has ahold of him. 

Flint sidesteps and then swings to punch Silver in the abdomen to disable him.

Silver doubles over with a groan and slides to his knees. 

The men fighting Silver and each other freeze, their eyes wide as both Flint and Billy tower over them.

“Enough!” Flint roars, and the men scrabble to their feet and take off in three different directions.

“Captain?” a voice murmurs and Flint looks down. Flint realizes his hand is still fisted in Silver’s hair and he kneels at Flint’s feet. 

Flint’s one and only thought in that split second is _ ‘Fuck, he looks like he belongs on his knees,’ _ before his brain catches up with the implications of this.

“Would you mind?” Silver gasps and flinches, pointing to his head, and Flint knows he holds on too tight.

His cheeks go hot and he untangles himself. Then he steps back as quick as he can with any dignity. 

Silver does not look at all upset. As a matter of fact, his expression turns curious, even as he continues to grip his belly and doesn’t get up. They stare at one another, and something else shifts in Silver’s gaze, something knowing.

“Captain, what is it?” Billy asks from his elbow, breaking the spell. 

Flint breaks eye contact with Silver to glance up at Billy’s concerned face. He stiffens his back and his jaw flexes as he regains control. “We’ve had enough celebration, it seems. Get the men back to their posts.”

Billy nods and starts to respond, his eyes flicking down to Silver with a question in his eyes, but Flint doesn’t wait to hear it before he stalks away. 

IV.

Silver sits at a table in Eleanor’s tavern with the very same men who tried to beat him to a pulp only last week. They laugh over their mugs of rum as Flint watches from his corner, his own cup untouched.

As far as he knew, Silver never drinks, or at least not like he drinks this evening. Of all the times liquor has been available, Silver always manages to be the most sober man at the table, preferring instead to listen and learn from men with sloppy, unhinged jaws after they have a few.

But tonight seems different. 

Several hours ago, they laid anchor in the harbor and unloaded their cargo. He, along with Silver and the crew worked to get the cargo on the beach and to the warehouse, and everyone had been in a jovial mood because they finished early. The prize was large and everyone will get more gold in their pockets than they have in several weeks. 

Silver approaches Flint before they walk into the tavern, not together of course, only nearly at the same time. 

“You were lucky with that last prize,” comes Silver’s voice before Flint walks over the threshold. It is dark, and when he turns, the light from the lanterns colors Silver in shades of yellow and orange, as if he is on fire.

Flint is grateful his face is shadowed because the lanterns are behind him.

“I think you benefit in this as well, Mister Silver,” he says.

Silver chuckles. “Well, yes. I do. And I suppose I have you to thank for that.” His eyes flick past Flint’s shoulder and then back, crinkling at the corners with a smile. “Are you here to celebrate with the crew? That hardly seems your style.”

“No.” Flint is here to keep watch. Without Gates, he can trust no one else to do the job. 

A smile curls Silver’s lips. “Would you like to? I think I would like to buy you a drink.”

Flint stares at Silver for a minute, trying to process what Silver says and the tone in which he says it. 

He decides Silver is..._ flirting, _ and Flint has not been flirted with in a very long time. A pang of longing cramps his chest and he clenches his mouth shut, unwilling to let Silver see it. His mind is blank. He cannot think for some reason, and that makes him angry.

When he does not respond, Silver’s mouth turns into an uneasy smile, but he presses on. “Captain, I am saying I would like your company tonight.”

And the innuendo there is impossible to miss. A thousand possibilities race through Flint’s mind, most of them ending with one or both of them naked and sweating, but only one response issues from his lips. 

“No.”

Silver’s expression falls momentarily, and then he laughs and shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He brushes the refusal off with seeming ease, but the set of his shoulders tells a different story as he turns and walks into the tavern ahead of Flint.

And now, Silver is drunk. Apparently, there is valid reason why Silver does not drink with abandon. His is loud. He is obnoxious. And he talks even more than he usually does.

Flint sits at a table by himself, no one willing to dare broach a conversation, watching and listening.

At first, the conversation is innocuous. Silver talks with great dramatic prose about his adventures at sea, though Flint raises his eyebrows several times at Silver’s exaggerations. This is nothing more than the other men do when they come ashore, though they usually tell their tales in Max’s brothel to impress the whores instead of men at a tavern. Here, Silver does not seem to care who listens to him, and by the volume of his voice, he wants _ everyone _ to hear him.

But when the conversation turns and he starts to wax prosaic about gold and beached ships, never naming L’Urca de Lima, but doing everything but, Flint has had enough. He shoves back from the table and stalks toward Silver, Silver completely oblivious to the danger approaching from his right.

Flint does not even wait for Silver to notice him.

Gripping the scruff of Silver’s neck, he hauls him out of the chair and immediately heads toward the exit, Silver’s arms and legs akimbo and garbled protests falling from his mouth. The men at the table barely flinch as their mate is carted away like an errant child.

The manhandling does not stop Silver’s mouth, however. 

“Fuck off, Flint. I was just—” Silver slurs as he stumbles forward when Flint lets go. He straightens and wobbles on his feet, blinking and waving his arms at the tavern’s opening.

“You are jeopardizing everything running your mouth like that,” Flint hisses.

Silver snorts, and the act seems to throw him off balance because he stumbles a bit to his left before he holds his arms out to his sides and stomps his foot like a toddler. “Oh, just fuck off.”

Flint scowls. “You need to get back to camp. You’ve had enough.”

“I don’t think I have, your fucking highness,” Silver sneers. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure I need another, and it’s just your shit judgement call for not drinking with me, because then we could _ both _ be having this much fun. You don’t look like you’re having fun at all.” He leans forward and pokes Flint in the center of his chest and then points his finger in his face. He narrows his eyes like he is having difficulty focusing. “Nope. No fun. No Fun Flint, ‘s what I’m gonna call you from now on.” 

“Silver, don’t make me—”

Silver raises both his brows in mock astonishment. “Watch me,” he says, placing both hands flat on Flint’s chest and shoves. 

Flint does not move, but Silver stumbles backward. 

“Fuck,” Silver swears, swaying dangerously. “You’re like a tree. A great big, grumpy tree. With fucking lovely eyes, but a fucking wicked punch. Which reminds me, I owe you, like three of these.” And Flint does not expect Silver’s swing at his face to connect, much less hurt. Pain blossoms in his mouth and his head snaps back. 

He tastes blood and when Silver charges at him again, he defends himself.

When Silver comes to in the morning the next day on the beach, he asks nearly everyone from the ship where he got the bruise on his cheek and why his knuckles hurt.

Everyone except Flint.

V.

It is several days later and he cannot get Silver’s words out of his mind. They have spent time there, rolling around and around, working their way under his skin and into his dreams.

_ “Captain, I am saying I would like your company tonight.” _

It is amazing what the mind can do with a simple sentence while you sleep.

He takes the bottle and brings it to his lips, drinking deeply, and shuts his eyes as the room spins.

They are at sea, and it is in the middle of the night, and Flint is trying not to sleep, because to sleep is to dream of Silver. At least, that is how it has been since Nassau. 

There is a tap at the door and Flint is in the middle of hoping he remembered to lock it when it becomes apparent he has not.

“I saw the light, Captain, and was wondering if I might have a word?” Silver says and enters, shutting the door behind him with a quiet snick. 

Flint lets his head fall against the back of his chair and he raises his eyes to the ceiling. “What do you want, Silver?”

Silver stops short and there is short intake of breath. “Are you...Are you _ drunk _?” he asks.

When Flint looks down again, Silver is staring, his mouth agape. Flint snorts at the irony of all of this. “D’you want a drink, too? S’that why you came here?”

Silver shuts his mouth with a snap. “Erm. No. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll pass this time.”

Flint blinks and starts to laugh. It comes from his belly and bubbles out, and Silver looks like he is carved of stone in his shock. Fuzzy thoughts that this might be the first time Silver has ever seen him laugh come to mind, and that makes Flint laugh even harder. When he finally settles, his sides ache and he says, “So, this ’s one of those times when you listen, right? Where you sit there ‘n I tell you my secrets?”

Silver hesitates. “I don’t know, Captain. Do you have secrets?”

They stare at each other because they both know he does. Flint smirks and looks back to the ceiling. He lets the silence hang and waits for Silver to shift on his feet before he speaks.

“Do y’know the story of Cycnus?”

Pause. “No, I don’t believe I do.” 

Silver comes around the desk to sit on its edge and Flint hums, squinting at the ceiling as if he could read the story there, though he knew it well enough by heart. “Cycnus was the king of Liguria. He was loved by his people, and he ruled well, but most of all, he was loved by Phaethon.”

He pauses, and the smile fades from his mouth. “Ovid and Virgil write of them, these two lovers, that their bond was unbreakable.” Here Flint huffs a laugh. “Well, death is the breaker of the strongest bond, is it not?” He turns his head toward Silver and finds him watching intently, furrows etched deep between his brows. At least he doesn’t look shocked anymore. “Phaethon confronts the Gods and his father among them about his lineage, and in his rashness, ends up falling back to earth and perishing in the river Eridanos. Cycnus mourns for him, thinking his heart would break at the death of his lover, his friend. He refuses to leave the river’s edge, and in their pity for him, Apollo himself turns Cycnus into a swan so he could be near his love always.”

Flint drinks from the bottle still dangling from his fingers until it is empty and sets it on the desk. It topples over and they watch it roll off the surface to crash on the floor. The bottle breaks in two jagged pieces. 

Silver narrows his eyes. “My God. This is...This,” and here he waves his arm about, “is not about you creating some great pirate nation, is it? At least not all of it. This is about...” Comprehension falls over Silver’s expression like a veil as he puts the pieces together. “This can’t be for the Barlow woman. If she were dead, perhaps, but she is very much alive and casting her spells, according to the crew.”

Flint does not know why he still sits there. It is probably because he knows his legs could not support him if he stood. The room swims. 

“Then there was someone else.” Silver looks around the room, his eyes flickering around as if he could find a clue in a space he has been countless times before. “Someone important enough to ignite this rage.”

“That ‘s none of your concern,” Flint says, which, of course, confirms Silver’s accusation rather succinctly.

Silver curses and picks up the two pieces of glass off the floor. He sets them on the desk and leans over, no _ looms over _ Flint. He is angry, and yet, there is something in his eyes, something more complex than that. He is near, much too near and Flint is agitated. “You are such an arrogant arse. Whatever it was that gave you this complex, this need to fight all of bloody England, it cannot possibly be worth—”

Before he finishes his sentence, Flint strikes out, the flash of anger at his choice of words so white-hot inside it could not be held back. He pulls his punch at the last second, though, and he barely hits him at all.

Even so, Silver’s head snaps to the right and he sucks in a breath in shock. He wipes the trickle of blood from his mouth as he turns around and frowns. “Struck a nerve, did I?” he says and rubs at his jaw. “You really need to stop doing that.”

Flint smirks as the anger drains away for no other reason than he is drunk, _ very _ drunk, and the warmth of it is making his limbs loose and his tongue looser. “I really don’t.” He waves a hand in Silver’s face and Silver shies away from it. “And you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve lived through, what I’ve lost.”

No one knows.

“You lost your Phaeton,” Silver says, and something in his voice makes Flint turn. 

Flint blinks at him, exhaustion weighing him down, keeping silent because he had already said too much. 

He notices for the hundredth time Silver’s eyes are blue, the clearest blue he has ever seen. Like the sea on a sunny day. 

He closes his own eyes and groans. 

“Captain. I think it’s time for you to retire for the evening.”

“I… don’t want to sleep,” Flint says. His eyes are still closed.

“Whyever not? You may not want to, but you need to.” Silver finally steps aside and hooks a hand around Flint’s elbow and Flint doesn’t even bother to shake it off as Silver leads him like a child to his bunk.

Flint looks at him. “I don’t want to dream.” _ Of you. I don’t want to dream of you and then have to pretend I don’t. _He crawls under the coverlet and sighs. It is uncomfortable as ship’s accomodations always are, but at least the room moves less when he lays his head on the threadbare pillow.

Silver smiles down at him, and it is a thoughtful smile, a kind smile meant to comfort. “You might dream of your Phaeton.”

_ Not for some time. _ He blinks as realization hits and sucks the breath from him. _ Not since I met you. _

“No. I’ll not. I’ll dream of other things...” Flint stops, closing his mouth. He swallows and turns his back to Silver, pulling his thin blanket up to his chest.

Silver stays quiet for quite a while, before he murmurs a quiet, “Oh.”

And if Flint feels the soft brush of fingers over his hair before he passes out, he will keep that information for himself.

V+I

Flint wakes and immediately wants to die. His head is stuffed with cotton and pounds with every heartbeat. The sunlight shining through the windows beats upon his face and he cringes away from it, covering his eyes with his hand. 

He groans and a wave of nausea sweeps over him, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin. Gripping the edge of his bunk, he waits for it to pass, knowing he cannot lie here forever, and that moving about and getting something in his belly will cure most of his ails. 

Ten minutes passes, however, before can open his eyes, and another five before he can turn his head in anticipation of pulling himself out of bed. He looks out over his quarters and frowns. 

On his desk is a plate of food— a large hunk of bread and half as much cheese, and a bit of salt pork. Beside it sits a tankard of what he hopes is not rum, because at the thought of it, Flint’s stomach rolls. 

He blinks at the food, seeing it, but not understanding how it got there. 

And then it dawns on him that Silver is the only one who would know of his poor choices last night, and he feels a rush of… _ something _, and his cheeks heat. 

When he finally draws himself up and out of bed, he manages the few shaky steps to his desk and takes a tentative sip from the tankard. Watered ale. Oh thank God. 

All of a sudden, the hunger hits him and he eats his food quickly, but with the care of a man who wants to keep it in his stomach rather than sick it back up. When he finished, he pushes the plate aside and rubs a hand over his face. He grimaces and then freezes when he thinks about his behavior last night. Because unlike Silver, Flint remembers every moment of his inebriation.

And he finds he does not regret any of it. Well, except perhaps hitting Silver. Silver knows about him now, he supposes, and for reasons he cannot put words to yet, he does not fear him knowing. Oh, he is not ready to turn sentimental and share his innermost thoughts, but he is ready for… something. 

He sits for several minutes, turning the budding thought over in his mind, and try as he might to discount it, it won’t let go. 

Something winds down deep in his belly and then up into his chest, pulling tight. He stands, decision made. 

When eventually he steps out of his cabin and walks on deck, hair pulled back neatly, his coat swinging around his calves, a few sets of eyes glance in his direction. He strolls a circuit around the deck, checking on the men and their attention to their duties. Billy stops him for a short conversation about the need for more sailcloth at the next stop, and Beauclerc wants his opinion on their heading. Under his skin, Flint is impatient, but outwardly, he nods and does what he does best. He captains his ship.

When he finishes, he returns below deck. 

He finds Silver outside the galley, sitting on a crate peeling potatoes.

“You know that’s not your job anymore, right?”

Silver looks up, surprised, the paring knife and potato poised in midair. When he sees Flint, his eyes go a little wide, at what, Flint is not sure. 

“I know,” Silver answers. “Randall is a bit under the weather, though, so I offered to help.” He sets down the potato and the knife and wipes his hands on a nearby rag, and then he stands. “You look like you are feeling better.”

The tight feeling in Flint’s chest loosens a little and turns warm. 

“Yes.” The words he wants to say stick in his mouth and he cannot find the voice to say them.

“Everything alright?”

Flint grimaces at the wariness in Silver’s tone. “No,” he says honestly.

Silver’s eyes go narrow and he looks as if he wants to move back, but he there is no room to do so. “Are you going to punch me again? Because really, I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

Flint almost laughs at that, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps forward. “No, I’m not going to punch you.” He hesitates then, because if Silver wants to run, he will let him run and he will have his answer. So he waits. 

Blue, blue eyes flicker and soften to end up crinkling at the edges as Silver smiles.

“Fantastic,” he murmurs. “So what are you going to do, then?” 

Flint hears the hitch in Silver's breath and the tightness in Flint’s chest disappears completely to be replaced with the heat of anticipation. “This.”

He leans in and presses his lips to Silver’s, not thinking anymore, not worrying about anything but this. Silver’s mouth is unresponsive at first, and then Flint angles his head just so and steps into Silver’s space, close enough to feel the heat of him through their clothes. 

This time, he touches Silver’s face gently, trying to make up for the times that he didn’t, his thumb sliding delicately over the skin in a caress. 

And that is the moment John Silver smiles against Flint’s mouth and kisses him back.

**Author's Note:**

> Because someone on Tumblr wanted this, and ShinySherlock dared me to do it.¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so if I make any major mistakes, let me know, otherwise, it is as it stands.
> 
> as·tro·labe /ˈastrəˌlāb/ noun: an instrument formerly used to make astronomical measurements, typically of the altitudes of celestial bodies, and in navigation for calculating latitude, before the development of the sextant. In its basic form (known from classical times), it consists of a disk with the edge marked in degrees and a pivoted pointer.


End file.
